Rly need haircut. I have dust-coloured regrowth down to my ears and a fringe down to my upper lip. Someone come to my house with scissors and dye and let's make something happen, yow!

My travel alarm clock batteries are running out, and as a result it's making these dying, low-pithced screeching noises every hour. I wake up in the middle of the night to something that sounds sounds like a furby that's been thrown against a wall. (shivers)

On a completely random tangent I would also like to add that I don't appreciate being deleted off Facebook purely based upon my association with someone. Don't presume to know what kinds of things I would do when you've barely had a fucking conversation with me. That is all.

Friday, March 20, 2009

Monday, March 16, 2009

Adelaide University’s annual O’Week has always been marked by a helluva’ party and the end – the Union funded rock concert O’Ball. Each year in March the Adelaide Uni cloisters fill with fleets of bubbling youth, all there to check out live music, relax on the lawns or - in my case -pilfer cheap pints. That's right. I think you'll come to realise in time that all of my blogs have an underlining feature of being drunk. ;-)

This year’s musical offerings were particularly exciting, with acts like Children Collide, Little Red and The Cassette Kids taking to the stage. Thanks to some fantastic efforts from O’ball’s 2009 coordinators Rebekka Rechten and Aaron From, and their volunteers, the night panned out famously. Par some hired security who were (excuse my French here) unquestionable fuckwits. More on that later.

Adelaide’s hand-picked local act, Tracer, kick-started the evening into gear with a selection of powerhouse 70’s rock. The band have had promising press coverage in the last few weeks, and did uphold expectations with their performance.

(EDIT: I didn't actually see this band. Sorreh.)

Next up was Sydney quartet The Cassette Kids. Flouncing onto stage in a pair of rather dashing sequined tights, vocalist Kat Noorbergen was instantly the centre of attention. Performing tracks from EP We Are, their choppy, electro hooks combined with Kat’s siren howls made them an exciting group to watch. I hestitate to draw connections between this chick and Karen O, despite their vocals sounding very similar, because Karen O is the fucking goddess of the universe and I barely knew this chick. Still good fun though.

The Sydney darling was rocking out her hardest, yet despite efforts to conjure up a storm, she was left with a drizzle – literally. There was soon a spit of rain, at which her fans ran from the stage to find shelter. “Why is noone standing!” she winced. Sorry dude, I was too preoccupied hastily getting as many $3.50 pints as I could before happy hour ran out.

She managed to win the crowd back though – with bribery. “Dude, if I get two more people up here I’ll buy you each a Coopers!” Success ensued. Their set was topped off with a spectacular shout-out of “Adelaide, stand the fuck up! Stand the fuck up!” And there we had The Cassette Kids, signing out.

The punters had doubled by the time The John Steel Singers hit the stage, preceded by a cringe-worthy introduction from Nova 91.9’s Shane and Sarge. “You know how this band met? At Sizzler! I love Sizzler!” the radio presenter ‘joked’. Cough. What the fuck was Nova doing at a rock concert? Sorry, but any radio station that associates with 'Fitzy' is permanently, and i mean PERMANENTLY, in my black books. Despite this, because she was a little plump I found her little Sizzler joke funny. Had I been drunker I would have telled something along the lines of "Yeah I bet you love Sizzler". Alas, this was not the case. John Steel Singers put on a good show of breezy, jocular tunes while the sun went down. Tracks like Luxembourg were a hit, and slowly drew more and more people to the barriers.

Ten minutes later: “I wish these girls would just pee and get out,” complained the girl next to me while standing in the line for the bathroom. “I’ll kill myself if I miss Children Collide”. Perhaps this was a little overzealous, but it was safe to say Children Collide did garner the most hype for the night. Luckily for my queue neighbour, she didn’t have to wait long. Just minutes before the band came on a “Security” strode into the bathroom and demanded, quote; “Piss and get out” unquote. Oh, fucking wow. It was around this point that ticket-holders were beginning to get a bit peeved.

After a quick crowd warm-up from MC Claire, the time had finally come for Children Collide. Striding onto stage with a gusto that could rival Jimi Hendrix, guitarist and lead singer Johnny McKay announced his arrival with nothing short of a guitar shredding solo. The rest is history. Their sounds were tight, McKay’s vocals were top-notch and their dirty, grungy rock did a stellar job in making the moshpit go crazy. It’s been a while since we’ve seen these tight-panted indie folk really rock out with a guitar solo, but McKay proved that there are still those that can hammer A strings as effortlessly as they breathe. Their show was far and away the highlight for me.

Now, let me digress here and re-touch on the “fuckwit” security guards. There were signs on the stage explaining that if you were to crowd surf, you would be kicked out. We understood this, and most of us were well behaved. There were, however, a few lads with a bit too much beer in their bellies who decided it would be a real swell idea to do it anyway. While a 7” tall behemoth of a Security guard was standing a few metres away.

The result was this: the security guards, instead of calmly waiting after the show, proceeded to push past everyone in their path to get the wrong-doers, causing even more unrest in the mosh. Three times the same fucking bald, thick-necked bouncer nearly bowled me over during his pursuit of the alleged crowd surfer. Those who were O'Ball attendees, you'll know the one, the one that looked like this:

It was when they kicked a guy out AND his girlfriend, purely by association, that people were getting a fair bit sick of these assholes. The girlfriend got her revenge though – by drunkenly running on stage with a lopsided smile of triumph on her face. We cheered. “Don’t kick her out, please,” McKay sighed after the Bald Brigade set off to chase her. Cunts.

Hit 10pm, Melbourne indie-pop sweethearts Little Red rolled onto the stage for the final set of the night. Festooned in hats, Hawaiian leis and Raybans, their cavorting guitar licks and upbeat vocal duets were the perfect way to end the evening. After recovering from the headbangs during Children Collide’s set, the punters were now ready to wind down and and swagger to Little Red’s funky tracks. Highlights included the ever-so-catchy bass lines of It’s Alright and “I feel like I’m in love with yooou, it’s truuuue,” Witchdoctor. After being treated with a hearty applause, the lads left the stage, the crowds set off to Electric Light for the afterparty and the beer supplies exhausted. O’Ball 2009 had officially come to a close.

Or so we thought, enter Ridiculous Security scenario II. Who would have thought walking out of a University would be so hard. They’d not only stationed a guard at every exit in the University to stop punters walking through them, leaving North Terrace the only outlet, but refused to let anyone back into the venue to use the bathroom. When we inquired as to why, we were simply met with a rather rude insinuation involving bushes. Hmf.

After we finally escape from the fucking University, my dB magazine editor, myself and his two friends somehow end up in a car with bottles upon bottles of vintage wine. Yep. Thirty minutes later we've made it back to the afterparty at Electric Light hotel where the singer of Children Collide and the singer of the Cassette Kids are mid-pash. Epic. It's Sez's birthday tonight, but I can't find her ANYWHERE! (She later finds me, nearly in a coma on a couch. Woo) Memory of the night starts to get a little hazy from here, but let's say my night ended stumbling to a taxi rank and drunkenly laughing in line as two 40+ men get into a punchup over a cab. Stupid white people.

Monday, March 9, 2009

So I got back to Adelaide a few days ago. And I can say this much - all I feel is rage. Why is everyone dressed the same? Why is the Exeter still shit? Why is the typical Adelaide socialite a frosty, stick-up-arse snob? That said, I would also like to declare a ban on Raybans. A Rayban ban. Yep, I'm a hypocrite, but a hilarious one at that.

Thank god for the Garden, at least I have cross-dressers and cabaret to restore my sanity. I'm like a baby to a lactating teat. Ah, Fringe.. my saviour.

So I went to Womad on Saturday. Amongst the scantily clad transgenders and comedians roaming Rundle Street, what would Adelaide’s annual “Mad March” be without a three-day bender of global music to top it off? Well, that’s what WOMADelaide is for. That and for providing the opportunity to get stoned with crusty old punters. Of course.

The weather was overcast on this particular Saturday afternoon in March, a pleasant change from the stifling temperatures that Adelaide has beared with in previous years. Kicking off at 1pm at The Speakers Corner, I treated myself to the first helping of world music with East Timorese folk artist and activist Ego Lemos. Bringing a breezy concoction of steely guitar chords teamed with bongos, he sang in native Timorese tongue of global issues like water deprivation and poverty. His simple grassroots blues under the shade of the pine trees was an innocuous starter to the festival, and left me feeling a tingle of my inner hippy emerging. The shoes were still on at this point, but this would soon change.

Across the bridge, my ears perk up the sound of something maniacal. At Stage 2, shredding their fingers away to confetti, were the Eastern European gypsies Paprika Balkanicus. Playing traditional Balkans folk music with a contemporary drum machine beat, it was something else to watch them play their violins at a lightning speed tempo doubled by impossibly fast finger-work. Throwing in a few jokes about needing our credit card details, they were a hilarious bunch to watch. This was doubled by the fact that those dancing were finding it very difficult to keep up with the ever-changing rhythms of the music, and were kind of shuffling around awkwardly not knowing what the fuck to do. Except for this one guy. This guy who my friend points out was wearing EXACTLY THE SAME THING last year. I will upload a photo of this dude to assist in conjuring the image. Think of Billy Elliot on cocaine.. but shirtless and 40+ and clearly refusing to accept their age. It's amazing that these people actually think they have talent. Lol.

Hit 2pm. The dark clouds had moved away, the sun was out, and the fisherman pants were flowing through the gates thick and fast. A few people had managed to jump the fence during the afternoon, but security was tighter than usual and several had been chased. That’s not to say that those we saw successfully breaking an entering weren’t greeted with rapturous applause, or the odd "FUCK YEAH!" It was about this time that I decided the shoes were to come off – and stay off. Ah, the old feeling of Botanic Park’s soil sticking to my feet. And ciggarette butts.

Mmmm. At the Zoo stage we now had Seckou Keita SKG from Senegal – “The Jimi Hendrix of the Kora”. And they weren’t joking with that moniker either. The group’s leading attraction was a 12 stringed West African harp, an instrument that looked a bit like a two-handed banjo. This was the piece responsible for all the leading melodies of the music, fronted by none other than the Koran Hendrix himself, Seckou Keita. Amidst their earthy, off-beat African tunes, he quickly showed us why he holds the impressive title. Thumb plucking insanely fast, erratic melodies on his harp without breaking a sweat, his speed and precision on the West African harp was nothing short of awe-inspiring. This melodious harp in conjuction with the piercing vibratos of their vocalist made for music that sent shudders down my spine, and perked the ears of all passer-byers. I am feeling like a cider at this point.. yep, definately time to buy a cider.

Across the park, Marseille group Lo Cor de la Plana were carving up a hefty crowd. To look at, they were a simple outfit; six male vocalists on stools with tambourines. That is, until they begin to play, and then they were something else. They would start off with the deepest voice, and then one by one build onto it with separate vocal parts and specially timed foot-stomps and hand-claps. The end result would be a spectacular series of beats and noises, entirely created by the instruments of voice, feet and hands. The crowd were absolutely itching for them towards the end of it, as the build-ups to a beat that they could move to were torturous. The Frenchmen really took a’Capella to a whole new level. I looked at my watch. Oh, look what the time is! Cider o'clock!

The March sun was at a painful angle around the time that USA’s Kaki King hit Stage 3, yet our WOMAD hand booklets came handy to block out the glare. Regardless of whether you could see her or not, you could hear her. Oh, how you could hear her. Described as “the best guitarist under 5”1”, within the first thirty seconds of her set it wasn’t hard to see why. Bringing forth a mix of flamenco and rootsy acoustic guitar, her string slapping, harmonics, fingerpicking skill and insatiable speed was mesmerizing – and hard to believe that it came from such a small woman. By far one of the most impressive acts of the day. And so CUTE! I look down and notice my cup is empty. And wonder why it is empty. A hasty trip to the bar is made.

Next was The Audreys. I hestiate to write much more on this lot. When it comes to WOMAD, I can’t help but feel a little aloof towards local acts. No, it's not even that... it's more like I find lying on the carpet staring at the ceiling more entertaining than watching the Audreys. Needless to say, I watched an entire half of a song before taking my filthy, dirt-ridden feet elsewhere. Is it no surprise that I beelined to the bar to fetch more cider? No, no it is not.

For something a little askew, at 9pm was The Australian Dance Theatre Company, specializing in a contemporary dance act. The air had cooled right down by now, but that didn’t stop the dancers donning an outfit that can be best described as a hankerchief. There was a real reason as to why we were here, and it wasn't to critique the dancing. I'll be blunt: Evon and I were here to watch incredibly ripped mean leap and frolick on stage. There, I said it. Forty minutes later, we were feeling slightly more moist and aesthetically satisfied. Time for MORE CIDER.

Next up: Sa Ding Ding. This artist had received a lot of hype, and potentially was going to blow off our socks (not like we were wearing them anymore at this point anyway, ha!). Put it this way – I overheard a punter describing her as being “like an oriental Deep Forest fronted by a drag queen.” I couldn’t help but laugh, as it was partially true. After a series of highly impressive jewelled headpieces, the big finale ended in the front mistress herself crumbling to the floor to violently head-bang for five minutes. Mongolian metal, perhaps?

Soon afterwards, the crowds garnered to the first stage to check out Seun Keuti “You gave me your mud and I made gold from it” and Egypt 80. As the son of the famous Nigerian bandleader, the late Fela Keuti, his show was highly anticipated. And he delivered, taking to the mic with a saxophone, sharing lewd jokes about women and flashing his pearly-whites. Never before have I seen backup dancers that could ass-shake for 26 whole minutes. I mean, fuck. My hips don't even boast a diameter that is wider than my head. And here these chicks are shaking their meat like it's as second nature as breathing. An impressive feat on all the bands behalf.

The crowd was a bit overwhelming, so we decided to move to the more low-key Zoo stage to check out the Jamaican reggae beats of King Tide. The front-men were a little old and crusty in their Hawaaian shirts, sure. And they probably shouldn’t have tried to climb that stage support frame. But hey, gotta give it to them for rocking out their darndest. Their beachy tunes were the perfect way to wind down a day of frivolity – or the perfect way to make the most of that Ecstasy tablet you just dropped, like the guy who was dancing in front of us for the majority of the show. Only in WOM… I mean, hang on, did this guy mix up his dates of FutureMusic or what?

Of course, any WOMAD wouldn’t be complete with the annual Speaker’s Corner techno session raging long into the night. This year’s offering was UK’s Russ Jones and the Hackney Globe Trotter, spinning out a mix of latin, afro-beat and house music. Unfortunately I have sobered up too much at this point, and am in a bit of a pickle. By 1am, the buzz at Botanic Park had well and truly ended. The crowds had meandered northwards to the Fringe garden, the poi’s had been put away and all of our feet were now suitably caked with grime. We go to the garden for 10 whole minutes, decide we are too tired and catch a cab home. Le end.

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

In the last two days I've crossed multiple time zones. Been in both hemispheres. Endured jet lag. Nearly been hit by a car. Battled fatigue and 36 hours without sleep. I should be in a coma right now, but instead I've been awake all night YouTubing Ross Noble videos .

I can feel my frizzled neurons burning away with each word I type..

Going to have a bowl of cereal, two Krispey Kremes and then sleep for 20 years.